Summer Is Ended

Christina Georgina Rossetti

To think that this meaningless thing was ever a rose,
    Scentless, colourless, this!
  Will it ever be thus (who knows ?)
      Thus with our bliss,
  If we wait till the close?
Tho’ we care not to wait for the end, there comes the end
      Sooner, later, at last,
  Which nothing can mar, nothing mend:
      An end locked fast,
  Bent we cannot re-bend.

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